The Sheriff of Pecos/Chapter 4

EMPLETON BUCK did not particularly enjoy his call at the Circle Bar, nor did he find its occupants very slow in their reception. He did not see any one, in fact, nor did the dozen riders behind him. The buildings were dark and apparently deserted, until the blast of a shotgun ripped the night and Jake Harper's voice accosted the arrivals boomingly.

The ominous darkness, the more ominous silence, held the Running Dog men bunched up and nervous. Harper's words made them more nervous, when it became evident that Jake had witnessed the shooting on the road and was perfectly willing to testify to the fact. Buck made up his mind to go home and. went.

With him went Pincher Brady, alias Murphy, and the dozen riders. Murphy displayed no great grief for his defunct relative, but he was savagely disposed toward one Jack Robinson.

Once at the rangy, rather unkempt buildings which served the Running Dog as headquarters, Buck called Murphy into consultation. He also summoned the newly promoted foreman, one "Sandy" Davitt, a sour individual marred by a cast in one eye.

"We've made a mess of things since this morning, y' understand," Buck said glumly. "Murphy failed in town, and this here Robinson gent ran into a heap of luck headfirst. He's a flash gunman from somewhere, and Harper has put him in the bunk house."

"Old Jake has got his back up sudden," observed Sandy Davitt with a sneer. "Hope you ain't lost any nerve lately, Buck? He sure handed you a mouthful to-night."

Buck swore under his breath. His thin, raw-boned features were etched with red.

"He pays for that," he responded. "You hear me tell it! They's two things to be done 'fore Murphy can foreclose on that mortgage. First, the greaser Cervantes has got to be 'tended to. Next, Jake Harper."

"Jake ain't what you'd exactly call a social favrite," said Davitt dryly. "Same time, Buck, he's considerable well known as an old boy and crippled up some. Public opinion ain't goin' to favor his sudden demise, none whatever."

"Oh, that's all right," grunted Buck. "You and Slim and Doggy take some grub about to-morrow afternoon, and lay up the trail a ways. Jake will be ridin' over to the Lazy S to-morrow night or next morning. You boys rope him, fetch him over here, and we'll let him cool off a spell while we run that outfit of hisn off the range, savvy?"

"That's good as she lays, Buck." Sandy Davitt looked relieved. "I thought you was goin' to remark that I might go wrastle with Cervantes, which same I ain't got no longin' for. Me, I got a wide sense of my limitations. Any gent what undertakes the greaser in sober earnest has got to be born real lucky, and I wasn't."

"Who'd you suggest?" asked Buck, a lurking devil in his eye.

"You," said the foreman, grinning sourly. "Looks a whole lot like whoever wants the work done had ought to be able to handle some part of it his ownself, don't it?"

Buck was lounging in his chair as this veiled insinuation was uttered. Like a streak of light, he was up and in the air. Powerful as Sandy Davitt obviously was, he was taken by the throat and laid back across the table, gasping and strangled. Holding the man's lean throttle in one hand, Buck glared down at him.

"Some stuck up over sudden promotion, ain't you, Sandy?" inquired Buck's voice. "Feelin' your oats a heap, eh? That's twice you got sassy—ain't goin' to be no third time, Sandy. Or is they?"

"N-no," gasped the half-choked man. Murphy looked on the scene with interest, his red features quite calm, a cigar between nis teeth. "Lemme up, Buck!"

Buck released his hold suddenly, and stepped back, smiling nastily.

"Sure. Git up, boy, and beat it. You can tell the others that Cervantes is my meat—quick meat, likewise. You and Slim and Doggy light out of here to-morrow, and if you miss bringin' in Jake Harper, I'll skin the three of you one-handed! Git!"

Sandy Davitt departed hurriedly.

"I see," observed Murphy, shifting the cigar in his mouth, "I see you ain't backward when it comes to action, Buck. What's the program?"

"You ride over to the Lazy S in the morning," Buck ordered, who was indeed suddenly displaying a new and alert manner. "Pull the mortgage stuff on Estella, polite but firm, savvy? I know about where Cervantes will be. When I'm done with him I'll drop along to the house and fire you off the premises. Now set still till I get a drink."

Buck departed. Murphy glanced after him, then lighted his cigar thoughtfully.

"Humph!" he growled. "I've heard biggity talk 'fore this, Mister Buck! If I knows you, which I'd ought to, you ain't ridin' up to that greaser and pullin' no gun on him—no, sir! If you git him, it'll be 'cause he ain't armed, maybe. Well, let her ride! All I want is to git another chance at that smart Aleck, Robinson, who recognized me for Pincher Brady, cuss him! He's run up a big day's score, and I aim to pay him. By Godfrey, I'd come close to givin' him an even break, I would!"

With this admirable sentiment, Mr. Murphy inspected his right hand, whose back was crossed by a big piece of sticking-plaster. He was not really injured—the bullet had only scraped his hand slightly. His black scowl was perhaps induced by memory of the fate which had overtaken Matt Brady that same day.

Buck was uneasy, and remained uneasy. He had gone to great lengths to stage his final play for the Shumway girl and ranch, and saw himself verging on disaster. It was all due to that fool Robinson. He had met Murphy and had drawn him into Mike's place for conference. He had taken the snoring stranger for granted—and the stranger had wakened in sudden nightmare, according to the story told by Mike and by Murphy. What did it mean? Had Robinson overheard much of the talk? How had he chanced to recognize Murphy as Pincher Brady?

The fellow had not gone to Laredo at all but to Jake Harper's. That was suspicious. Where had Robinson come from? The south, beyond a doubt; but Buck was unable to discover anything about the man. Being thus uneasy, Buck issued stringent orders to his men, and regarded Robinson's fate as settled.

Upon the following morning, Mr. Murphy mounted and rode away from the Running Dog by his lonely. A little later Buck and two of his riders departed in company. Later still Sandy Davitt, Slim, and Doggy rode away together. The day was clear, brilliant, fairly warm.

Buck and his two men did not follow the road, but made their way by easy stages to the rolling and wooded section of the Running Dog which adjoined the fine water springs on the Shumway ranch. They knew about what they would find there; it had been the same story day after day since Matt Brady had undertaken to fence in the Shumway water.

Every morning Miguel Cervantes rode over that way and spent an hour cutting fence. If any of the Running Dog men showed up, Cervantes would smile and take all that was said and would allow himself to be ordered away. If they did not show up, he would finish cutting the fence and then depart. Later, Matt Brady would repair the fence.

By this mute and inglorious scheme of tactics, Cervantes caused the Running Dog some irritation, avoided a row, and registered protest against high-handed work. It gained very little, but it was at least a protest. It was about all Cervantes had to do on the place, since the remnant of the Lazy S stock was safely rebranded and herded with the Running Dog cattle.

Upon this particular morning, Miguel Cervantes was busily cutting wires while his pony cropped the lush grass about the springs, when he observed a single horseman approaching from the hills. At the same time his pony lifted its head and whinnied—in another direction where nothing appeared. Cervantes was puzzled, but, centering his gaze on the rider, he recognized the figure of Jack Robinson. He ceased work, lolled against a fence post, and began to roll a cigarette. He looked up with flashing smile as Robinson drew rein.

"Buenos dias!" cried the rider gayly. "How goes it this morning, Miguel?"

"Well, señor. I am glad to see you again."

"The gladness is all mine," said Robinson cheerfully. "If you knew how close I came not to seeing you again you'd get me. How is the señorita?"

"Frying doughnuts." Cervantes chuckled. His keen eyes darted over the other's figure. "You slept out last night, yes?"

"C'rect, sure's my name's Jack Robinson! Look rumpled, do I? Oh, I've been taking a squint at the country, Mig. Need any help here?"

The other shrugged. "No, thanks. It would be better if you rode on to the ranch."

Robinson gathered up his reins. "Then, hasta la vista! See you at dinner time."

Cervantes gestured assent, and watched the slender figure go riding off. Once more his pony lifted its head, cocking its ears toward another quarter. Cervantes glanced at the hills, saw nothing, and returned to his labor.

The figure of Robinson rode out of sight. For a space Cervantes worked on, rolling up the wire with painstaking care. For the third time his pony looked up, and flung a whinny of greeting into the sunlight. Cervantes halted, straightened up, and surveyed the empty landscape with one hand over his eyes to shield them from the sun.

As he stood thus, motionless, a tiny puff of white spat out from a hillside to his right; a second puff became visible to his left. Two rolling reports followed. Cervantes, dropping his shielding hand, stood for an instant and then quietly fell on his face.

Jack Robinson meantime rode up to the old adobe house beneath wide cottonwoods that view the Shumway domain from its rounded knoll, and dismounted. The house had been built Mexican style, even to the flat, stone-rolled adobe roof; it was cool and restful, with its vines and flowers.

Since no one came forth to greet him, Robinson unsaddled, took his horse to the corral to one side, and then tramped around the house to the rear. He turned the corner and paused.

Before him portly Señora Cervantes was pinning clothes to a line, while from the near-by doorway of the kitchen issued a voice that made Robinson turn a trifle red.

"I do hope he'll come soon!" was saying Estella Shumway. "I don't see why he went on to Harper's, when he must have known we were dying to see him. Well, that's the last of the batch; I'd better bring them outside to cool."

The señora turned, beheld Robinson, and stood with open mouth. He made a gesture of silence, and stepped forward to the doorway. In this, a moment later, appeared a young lady who held a great platter of new-sugared doughnuts in both arms. As she came out, Robinson stepped forward and took the platter from her.

Something happened swiftly.

"Oh!" cried the girl, surprise and indignation in her voice. Her freed hand slapped Robinson's cheek smartly; then she stared at him with widening eyes and flushed cheeks. "Oh!" Her voice was suddenly different, vibrant with eager welcome. "Oh, it's you! My goodness, is that the way you show up?"

Holding the platter, Robinson surveyed her with twinkling eyes.

"That's sure the way to show up, isn't it?" he drawled. "I was afraid you might not give me the right kind of welcome, so I took it. Sort of forgot what I look like, since you and Jake were down in Pecos County last fall, haven't you? Who'd you think was kissing you, anyway?"

The girl's cheeks reddened again, then she broke into a glad laugh.

"If I'd known it was you," she cried, "why"

Hastily Robinson set down the doughnuts and turned to the doorway—but Estella had changed her position and now stood outside, laughing at him.

"Too late!" she exclaimed, and then held out her hand. "Goodness, but I'm glad to see you. I knew from what Miguel said that"

"You see, Stella," broke in Robinson, "there was a lot o' trouble down below. The sheriff had been killed and Sam Fisher was filling out the job; he'll prob'ly be elected anyhow. So Sam being sheriff, he couldn't get away, and sent me up instead."

Estella frowned sharply at him for a moment, studying his face. She was brown-haired, hazel-eyed, healthily brown of cheek and arm. Robinson returned her gaze innocently.

"I always did admire the way those tendrils of brown hair sort of break loose and curl down around your ears," he said, cocking his head to one side and surveying her with critical stare. "Yes, ma'am, I always did, sure's my name's Jack Robinson! I met Miguel back yonder, where he's powerful busy with some wire, and he allowed you would be glad to see me"

"You met Miguel this morning?" repeated the girl.

"Yes. Stopped for a chat, then came on. I've been doing considerable running around since yesterday."

Señora Cervantes came up, and Robinson was introduced. Then, grabbing doughnuts in each hand, Robinson followed Stella around to the wide veranda and with a sigh of relaxation settled down in a comfortable chair at her side.

"Sam was right worried over not hearing from you," he observed.

"Not hearing?" Estella regarded him with wide eyes. "Why, I wrote only two weeks ago—wrote a long letter and begged him to come up at once if he could! He knew all about the mortgage, and had promised to try and sell the ranch if he could"

Robinson's eyes narrowed. "Who posted that letter for you?"

"I gave it to Mr. Buck to mail, as he was going to town."

"Oh! Well, I guess it got lost in the shuffle somewhere," said Robinson. "Anyhow, Sam hasn't heard from you in a month. Anyhow, he sold the ranch."

"Sold it! Sold this ranch?" The girl stiffened. "For how much? Who to?"

Robinson shook his head. "I dunno, ma'am. Sam, he made me promise not to say a word about it until he could get up here his ownself."

"Oh!" A trace of anger flamed in the girl's eyes. "I'd like to shake you"

"I'd sure like to have you," Robinson said with a grin. "Go ahead, ma'am!"

Instead, Stella settled back in her chair and regarded him narrowly.

"What kind of a game are you playing, anyway?" she demanded.

"None whatever. Me, I'm a innercent pilgrim, a stranger, plumb peaceable," and his grin was more exasperating than ever. "As I remember it, Sam Fisher sold an option on the place, and the feller was coming up to look it over. He had your power of attorney to sell, but seemed like you had to consent to the deal."

"I had!" repeated the astonished girl. "Why, nothing of the sort! I wrote Sam that he had full power"

"Sure, sure, but this was different. Seems like this feller wanted you to go with the ranch," averred Robinson innocently.

Stella looked at him a moment, then sprang to her feet. "What do you mean? How dare you! Oh, I wish I knew when you were serious! Who bought the place? Tell me!"

"Feller name of Robinson—Jack Robinson. Got any objections?"

They looked at each other for half a minute, a slow tide of color sweeping over the face of the girl. As she was about to speak, there came an interruption:

"Hello the house! Anybody home?"

Both turned. There, sitting upon his borrowed horse, was Mr. Murphy, whose approach had been unobserved. Robinson hastily dropped out of sight, concluding that he had been unseen.

"Oh, Lord!" he murmured. "Stella, bring in this gent quick; I'm going to slaughter him. Friend of mine, sure. Bring him in and give him a doughnut."

"Good morning," said the girl, somewhat perplexed at the whole affair. "Weren't you looking for me?"

"Lookin' for Miss Shumway, if you're her," returned Murphy. He dismounted and came forward toward the veranda. "My name's Murphy, ma'am. I done bought a mortgage over to Laredo City las' week, coverin' this place, and, bein' in the vicinity, thought I'd drop in and ask about it comin' due the first of the month."

The girl's face whitened a trifle. "The—mortgage?" she stammered. "Why—why, I thought the bank held it"

"Yes'm." Murphy took a paper from his pocket as he mounted the steps. "But I done bought her in. Maybe you'd like to look over

He broke off suddenly, for his eyes had fallen upon Robinson. The latter grinned at him cheerfully.

"Step right up, Mr. Murphy; step right up. We're a whole lot glad to see you. Try a doughnut? Finest you ever seen, I'll bet."

Murphy looked paralyzed, and in this case looks did not lie.